


the denbrough-tozier guide to ignoring an awards dinner

by androgynousmikewheeler



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Public Sex, far too much banter, pre-chapter two, so during the forgetting, some sexuality issues but they’re pretty minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26370574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgynousmikewheeler/pseuds/androgynousmikewheeler
Summary: When Bill Denbrough is seated next to an obnoxious but oddly familiar comedian at a painfully dull awards dinner, he must resort to creative methods of keeping the Trashmouth quiet (or, well, quieter).
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	the denbrough-tozier guide to ignoring an awards dinner

From the moment Bill sets eyes on the lopsided grin of the comedian assigned to his table, he finds it charming in an oddly familiar way. Then the absolute tower of a man starts talking, and Bill can’t decide if he wants to punch him or kiss him. Anything to shut him up. He spends most of the particularly boring awards dinner pondering the question, opinion sliding from one extreme to the other as the one and only Richie Tozier babbles in his ear incessantly.

As dinner wraps up and the first round of nominations begins, Bill expects the man to quiet down, but he has no such luck. Now, not only can he not hear the names being read off due to the sex jokes in his ear, but the tables around them are shooting annoyed looks at him.

“Could you please be quiet?” he hisses at Tozier eventually, “I’m trying to hear.”

Tozier guffaws. “You don’t care what they’re saying! If you cared about tonight, you’d have managed a plus one.”

Bill glares. “It’s not that I couldn’t ‘manage’ a plus one. I just didn’t care to bring one.”

Tozier looks unimpressed. “Bullshit! No one passes up a plus one by choice. That’s how you get stuck sitting with me all night.”

“You don’t have a plus one.”

“Listen,” Tozier says, throwing an arm around Bill’s much smaller shoulders, “the ladies love this dick,” he points to his crotch, “but they don’t love this dick.” He gestures at his own crooked smile and winks.

Bill chuckles against his will and rolls his eyes. “Gee, I wonder why.”

Tozier gasps theatrically. “You wonder why they love my dick? Oh, let me count the ways!” He throws his legs open, pressing against Bill’s thigh, slacks stretching against his crotch, and Bill can’t help sneaking a glance.

“Please, don’t,” he says, “I already know it’s not as big as your ego.”

Tozier slaps his knee and cackles. “Bill Denbrough gets off a good one. Nice to know you’ve been looking, though,” his voice quiets and takes on a sultry exaggeration as he grinds his hips, and Bill _is_ looking, “appreciating the merchandise.”

Bill fakes a gag.

“Yeah, you would be gagging.”

Bill laughs out loud, receiving some pointed stares. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, “do you not have an off button?”

“Nope! Everything’s a turn on for me!”

Bill buries a giggle in his palm. “Everything? This fork, that gets you going?”

Tozier wiggles his eyebrows, but his voice is finally a whisper. “Obviously! The sharp angles, the phallic symbolism? What isn’t sexy about that?”

Bill’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and as the crowds claps, he leans in slightly to ask, “Oh, so you go for ph-ph-“ he blinks in confusion at his own stutter, which he’d almost forgotten he once had, but plunges on, “ph-ph-phallic symbolism?”

Fear flickers across his light hearted face, and Bill smiles in reassurance. “Yeah,” Tozier mutters, eyes on the floor and voice uncharacteristically restrained, “yeah, I do.”

Bill nods, teeth fussing with his bottom lip. “Me too.”

Richie exhales shakily, an ounce of humor and a pound of nerves.

“So,” Bill says, dragging the syllable out, “if everything’s a turn on for you—”

“Yeah?” Tozier spits.

“—does that include me?”

For the first time that night, Tozier doesn’t have anything to say. He just blinks at Bill through his coke bottle glasses and blushes, the ghost of a smile on his face.

Bill’s tongue plays along his gum line as he rubs his own leg against Richie’s. “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

Richie’s adam’s apple bobs. “Are you suggesting...?”

Bill rests his hand on the expanse of Richie’s thigh and squeezes softly. “God, Trashmouth, think with either one of your heads.”

Richie snorts before casting a furtive look at Bill and laying a hand over his, inching it up to the growing bulge in his pants. Bill traces a thumb over it and Richie shudders.

Bill turns to whisper in Richie’s ear, “I think I might see why the ladies love it.”

Richie’s face creases. “They don’t, really. I’m not... you know.”

It’s Bill’s turn to gasp theatrically. “The painfully gay man usually sporting a Hawaiian shirt isn’t actually a ladykiller? I’m scandalized.”

Richie’s mouth opens to retort when Bill grabs hold of him through his pants and strokes once, hard. His eyes fall closed and his knee jerks. He moans quietly and mutters, “Rude.”

Bill’s fingers find a slow, steady rhythm and Richie blinks his way back into awareness as breath and the words, “Do try to be quiet,” hit his ear.

He sticks his tongue out and Bill grins. Even getting jerked off, the idiot has to act immature. He takes a moment to appreciate the girth under his hand and the subtle squirming of Richie’s hips.

After a long moment of much needed quiet as some announcer drones on, occasionally punctuated by clapping, Richie’s breath quickens and his leg jitters.

Bill moves to pull away, but Richie’s big hand covers his. “Please, Bill.”

“Your pants—“

“Don’t give a shit.” His eyes fix Bill’s, huge between the pleading gaze and the glasses’ magnification, and Bill laughs.

“God, you’re a mess,” he says, and his strokes speed up, rough and rhythmic, and Richie buries his head in Bill’s shoulder, teeth chattering and muscles tensing, as Bill works him through orgasm.

He slumps back into his seat with a satisfied sigh and winks at Bill, who looks pointedly at the wet spot in his trousers.

“Good luck walking out of here without anyone noticing that.”

Richie scoffs. “You’re forgetting the perks of being the world’s biggest klutz,” he says, and pours his glass of water down his front, soaking his blazer, shirt, and pants.

They both laugh, inappropriately loud in the time between applause.

“Now what do you say you escort me to the bathroom, and we take care of a few things?” Richie shoots a look at the straining fabric of Bill’s pants and Bill blushes.

“After you, sir,” he says as he rises from his seat, and they make a beeline for the restroom, weaving amongst dozens of C-list celebrities and stifling laughter. They make it into the tiled bathroom and Bill gets out half of a cackle before Richie’s lips are on his. His kisses are fast and wet, pushing Bill up against the counter, probably bruising his upper thighs.

“We should probably take a stall,” Bill mumbles into Richie’s mouth, “the door doesn’t lock.”

Richie laughs as he fumbles with Bill’s fly. “That’s half the fun.”

Bill’s hips jerk at this sentiment, rutting against Richie’s thigh, which has found its way between Bill’s legs. He melts into Richie’s touch, one large hand in Bill’s graying hair, the other pulling at his zipper with a sloppy desperation, their chests heaving together, lips grasping at each other. There’s something incredible, Bill thinks, as much as he is able to think with the kisses Richie trails from his lips down his throat, about being so surrounded by someone, pressed in on every side by a strange but mysteriously familiar presence.

And then Richie is falling to his knees, one of Bill’s hands scrabbling to hold the door closed, the other holding himself up. He kisses at Bill’s hips through his slacks, long fingers pulling at his waistband, pulling his pants down around his thighs.

He laves his tongue over Bill’s briefs, hot and wet against his dripping dick. Then he pulls back with a smirk. “Looks like someone’s close to making his pants comment seem hypocritical.”

Bill growls and juts his hips back into Richie’s face. “Looks like someone should put their mouth to better use than quips.”

Richie’s whole face wrinkles as he laughs, nose and eyes and cheeks. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hotshot Bestseller, sir.” His tongue runs up Bill’s length with practiced ease, the corners of his lips aching with a smile. “Or should I say, Mr. Big Bill, sir.” He cackles. “Get it? ‘Cause you’re, like, super short, but your dick’s—“

“Beep beep, Richie.”

For a second, they both pause, struck by the odd comfort of the phrase, the easy way it tumbles from Bill’s mouth. They share a moment of surprise, confusion, deja vu.

And then Richie pulls down Bill’s underwear, and they forget about it. His dick springs from his waistband, and Richie flicks it a few times with his forefinger, watching it bounce with a dopey grin.

Bill rolls his eyes and flicks the top of Richie’s head in revenge. “Do you mind?”

“Someone’s in a hurry,” he grumbles, one large hand nearly engulfing Bill’s cock and stroking harshly and without rhythm.

“Th-th-that’s not wh-wh-wh- fuck!” he cries out as Richie licks across his slit, giving up on the sentence entirely, not that a newly rediscovered stutter and some remarkable distraction was helping much.

“Yes, sir,” Richie says, “fuck coming right up!” Before Bill can shush him again, his nose is buried in Bill’s pubic hair, throat adjusting around his cock. He has to hold back Bill’s hips as they jitter uncontrollably. His eyes water, taking more into his mouth than is probably advisable, but he fucks his throat on Bill’s length in his very best approximation of a porn star.

One hand keeps Bill’s hips steady as the other explores, kneading at his ass and digging bruises into his upper thighs. A finger finds its way between Bill’s cheeks, stroking against his hole as he sucks desperately.

He looks up, question written into his eyes, and Bill nods, grabs Richie’s wandering hand and bends awkwardly to lather two thick fingers with his spit. Richie pulls his hand away, pushing lightly against his hole once more before shoving a finger inside.

Bill doesn’t make it to two fingers. Between the sudden penetration and the warm, wet heat of Richie’s mouth, his body twitches, thoughts overpowered by white hot pleasure, biting his lip to keep as quiet as he can, which is not terribly quiet. Cum courses down Richie’s throat, swallowed with an ease that speaks to plentiful practice, and he is leaning back on his heels, panting.

“Well, teach,” he says, pushing at his desperately smudged glasses, “can I get that A now?”

Bill grimaces. “Gross.”

Richie shrugs, holding out a hand for Bill to help him up.

As Bill pulls him to his feet, he jokes, “So, do all your shows include the porn star impression, or am I just your favorite?”

Richie throws an arm around his shoulder and grinds his knuckles into his scalp. “Of course, you’re my favorite! You think I’d kneel on a bathroom floor for just anybody?”

Bill hums. “Yeah, just about.”

Richie hip checks him towards the door. “Dickweed.”

Bill laughs as he rights his pants. “What, are we listing the things most likely to be in your mouth?”

“In that case, we’re missing the most important one: cheap ass whiskey.”

Bill shoves him out of the way, finger combing his hair back to some semblance of order as he asks, “Aren’t you rich enough for nice whiskey at this point?”

Richie performs a similar grooming ritual, addressing his mirror self with, “Yeah, but it’s not cheap to find someone willing to put up with my mouth long enough to fuck it.” As always the self deprecation is only mostly a joke, and his grin slips a little.

“Seems like you should avoid plus ones more often then, if you get all this for—“

The bathroom door swings open, some other C-list celebrity scowling at them as he strides in.

“At least do us all the favor of cleaning up whatever drugs you’ve been snorting,” he grumbles as he locks himself in the farthest stall.

They break down into cackling again, desperately trying to dampen their glee as they weave back through the awards ceremony to their table.

The next morning, the tabloids proclaim, “Tozier and Denbrough: Crack Comrades?”

Bill guffaws. “Terrible title.”

His publicist is not amused.


End file.
